


The Link

by spagetisafanficgod



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Gen, i have no clue what's going on either, i mention a personal headcannon for mikey but it's really subtle, props if you can spot it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26527489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spagetisafanficgod/pseuds/spagetisafanficgod
Summary: Basically I took all the halloween movies (including the book), put them in a blender, drank them, and vomited on the floor.Heres the vomit.take this as you will, it's what i think about it.enjoy.
Kudos: 8





	The Link

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a different timeline I haven't published, so that's referenced sometimes (being chained to a wall parts) dw about it <3

Michael slammed his feet against the curtain, splashing it with a new coat of blood. His stomach twisted and turned, growling, but he didn't listen. He didn't care about his stomach, not when all he could hear was the voice. Screaming at him. Screaming to get out, to get anywhere. 

To get to The Trapper's neck and slit it wide open.

If Michael were a cannibal, he would drink the warm blood that poured out. He had, believe it or not, a slight breath of morals. He never did enjoy the particular metal flavor it had anyway. 

His wrists and ankles cried in pain as he continued to move. Michael had attempted to summon his knife, but there wasn't much he could do with it, and the blade usually ended up clattering to the floor. It was dark, the voice mingling with the Entity's disappointed whispers, and to make matters worse, he knew Cynthia sat at a warm fire. She was free, and comfortable, and alive.

She was alive, and his hands were chained, and not around her throat like they should be. He isn't pinning her down, and stabbing her (or strangling, or bludgeoning, he wasn't picky) until there was nothing left but himself and the real Cynthia. The one that would love him back in the silence. Michael fell still, head leaning back slightly. His limbs felt fuzzy, and his head felt like the eye in the storm. 

He was five years old. One of his oldest memories of Cynthia. He held his sister dearly, and he felt a connection. The link that buzzed in his mind and he knew they would not be separated. He would trace her small skull, fingers brushing wispy locks of hair and smooth baby skin. Judith would sit at the kitchen table. She never got the chance to admit she envied the close relationship. 

Most importantly for Michael, no one batted an eye at their supernaturally tight bond. The way his heart fluttered when her small hand wrapped around his fingers, or when she grabbed and tugged his then blond hair, or whatever colored shirt he wore that day. How he'd awaken early to loiter in his parent's doorway, watching her sleep. Or how he would stay late at night, patting her until she drifted to a better plain of existence. 

How Michael lay awake at night, listening to a level of insanity his child mind couldn't comprehend. Everything terrified him. He was scared, and as he grew older, it got worse. 

In school, he found no friends. He didn't even bother. He thought of Cynthia and sat quietly at a table. Information scratched at his ears, bounced off of his skull, but none entered. All deflected but the bare minimum. Strangely, the bare minimum worked. The reaction was overwhelmingly positive. They had raised a genius where the eldest failed. Michael simply traced his fingers over the bumped plastic. The praise did nothing. 

He didn't care. 

Girls were gross, and he kept away. He was warned of the dangers of the opposite sex (by his fellow male classmates, of course), and took them to heart. Judith was gross, but Cynthia was not. Cynthia was like him, and he like her. Judith was gross because she always had someone over. A friend, who would give him a quizzical look. Or perhaps a boy, who would befriend him to the bare minimum he needed to. Just to look nice. Michael would give him the bare minimum right back, and focus his attention on Cynthia. He didn't understand the fascination with girls. People would smile, and tell him he'd change his mind when he got older. He's eighteen years and several dead bodies older now, chained to a stranger's wall like an animal, and he still thinks girls are gross. 

He doesn't recall what age he was when he learned about the rat exploit. It started with bugs, beetles, small critters that crawled and skittered in a vile fashion. Then, he got his hands on a rat. A slimy, sleazy creature, too slow. He crushed the vermin under his shoe in his backyard. A difficult task, as his prey squirmed under the pressure, and it took far too long for anything to actually happen. It's head popped, in the end, with a satisfying squelch, and Michael ate dinner in silence for the first time. Cynthia fussed when he touched her, and Michael grinned. She knew what he did, and it is indisputable evidence that they were one. They were connected. 

In hell, he held on to the connection as his mind separated from his body. He spent his time thinking about Cynthia. He felt what she was doing, where she was, how she herself felt. Michael knew Cynthia felt him back. He knew she felt his anguish and pain. She felt his confusion and boredom. They had a link and the link stood the test of distance and time. He would watch his little sister grow up. He made friends when she did. He passed and failed quizzes when she did. He smiled when she did, and frowned when she did. He felt full when she ate, and rested when she slept. He'd stress along side her, relax along side her.

He lived when she did.  
He'd die when she did. 

He knew she felt the same. She knew it too. She felt it when she slept and breathed and lived that she was connected to him. They were cut from the same cloth. 

Michael sat deathly silent. She spoke for him, miles away. He did not need his voice when he had hers. He did not want to hear his voice when he could hear hers. If he listened, he could. She was getting older, her voice changing from the childish high pitch to a more mature one. He was changing too, whether he liked it or not, and all of a sudden he couldn't bring himself to enter the communal showers. 

He'd watch Loomis pry at his head, poke and prod with all the tools he brought with him. He worked hard and carefully, as if Michael were a precious artifact. The old voice was tuned out, and he though of Cynthia's instead. 

Screams shattered his skull in the darkest hours of the night, as he lay on the cheap mattress that never felt comfortable, no matter which way you chose to roll. Each shriek sounded like an ice pick jamming through his brain. It must have kept Cynthia awake as well. They shared a link. 

His body did not move before his brain. The two were perfectly in sync. The voice did not coo in his mind. He chose what he did, and he knew what he needed to do. Michael spent months setting up careful dominoes.  
Then waited. 

Waited for a sigh that came during dinner, when he saw Cynthia so vividly in his mind, he knew the link was ready. He knew it was time, and so did she. He knew what had to happen, and so did she. The autumn air was crisp on his face, such a strange smell to the chemical breath he was so used to. Funnily enough, he nearly didn't make it. He nearly crashed into a tree, and he was reminded that the voice probably didn't take driving lessons either. 

When Michael arrived and saw what Cynthia had become, he near tore the town apart, and it took all the charisma the voice had to keep him in check. She was not waiting for him. She saw the link, and ignored it. 

The knife was stolen, but it didn't feel that way to The Shape. It was fate he took it, so it belonged to him in the beginning. He grasped the handle tighter, knuckles as white as his mask. It was time Cynthia was reminded of her fate, as well. 

Michael would make her remember. He would make her understand.


End file.
